


Phish Food

by SummerdaySands (IvyMcAllister)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hangover, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Unintentional drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyMcAllister/pseuds/SummerdaySands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Protective Sentinel, sleepy Guide, and gratuitous ice cream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phish Food

**Author's Note:**

> Also hosted at the WWOMB/Squidge (dot) org under my gen pseud, Summerday Sands. Originally posted there in 2004.)
> 
> Disclaimer: Jim & Blair are not my creations. They are the property of Pet Fly Productions, and I'll return them (none the worse for wear) as soon as I'm done with them. *crosses heart* Promise! I've made no money from this story.

Phish Food  
by Ivy McAllister (aka Summerday Sands)

\----------------------------------------------------------

Jim Ellison dozed, his acute senses dulled by sleep and the beers he'd had with dinner. He stirred, inching closer to consciousness as a parade of innocent sounds penetrated the fog around his brain.

The sound of a key in the lock and the loft door opening was followed closely by a series of muffled thumps. The doors to Blair's room opened then, and a groan filled the loft, accompanied by a short, sharp intake of breath.

*Hiccup!*

Jim Ellison sat up in bed, instantly alert. He'd heard Blair come home. That was right. Normal. But them he'd heard ... something. He waited, silent, barely breathing, until--

*Hiccup!*

*Hiccup!*

*What the hell...?* Jim's sleepy confusion only lasted a second before he realized the sound was Blair, hiccupping.

Jim sighed. "Get a glass of water, Chief," he called loudly. "Or hold your breath or something."

Another hiccup was followed by a muffled, maniacal giggle. Jim frowned.

"What's going on down there, Sandburg?"

Jim's question was immediately followed by a dull *thump* that kept close company with a stifled groan, two more hiccups and another bout of giggling.

Jim's frown deepened, the typical Ellisonian scowl tempered by a hint of concern. Grabbing his robe to put on over his boxers, he started down the stairs. "All right, Chief. Fair warning, pal--I'm coming down. If you've got any... uh... company in there, I'd advise her to head for the fire escape and start climbing." Jim talked all the way to Blair's room, pausing outside the doors to knock quietly. "Chief? Can I come in?"

"Nobody's hoooooome," the singsong voice floated out.

"Sandburg?" Jim's frown was reaching epic proportions.

It only worsened when Blair answered him in a voice that sounded suspiciously like a parody of his own clipped, drill-sergeant tones.

"Ellison," Blair parroted. This was followed by a short round of stifled laughter that culminated in more hiccups and a small coughing fit.

Jim was not amused. And what was that funny smell...?

"Dammit, Blair, what's going on? It's after two in the morning!"

Apparently, Blair wasn't amused, either.

"Dammit, Jim, I'm an anthropologist, not an alarm clock!" No giggling followed, but a small groan and ominous gurgling sound galvanized Jim to action.

This meant war. Jim hovered outside Blair's room, trying compulsively and ineffectually to push up the sleeves of his robe like he was preparing for a fight. He realized what he was doing after a few unsuccessful tries and shoved his hands into his pockets.

"All right, Sandburg. I'm coming in there, and you'd better have a good reason for waking me up at 2 am to play monkey-say, monkey-do."

When Jim opened the door, he was not really prepared for the strangeness of the sight that met his eyes.

Blair was lying on the floor, one leg still on the bed--presumably from when he'd fallen off of it. His dress shirt, half unbuttoned and untucked, was no longer white but an unnamable shade of grey blotched with small stains of various colors. His shoes were on the bed, placed neatly on the pillow. Blair's hair was wild, fanning around his head where it lay on the floor like a rakishly tilted halo. The chocolate brown pants were unzipped, but buttoned and belted, and the matching brown suede vest was unbuttoned. He looked... looked... Hell, he looked *debauched*.

And the smell. Alcohol, certainly. That would explain things. And there was another smell, lingering, trying to weave itself into the tapestry of scents that blanketed his Guide. Jim took a long sniff. It was coming to him... What?!? POT?

Yeah, it was weed, all right. Jim sighed. He'd spent enough time in Vice--and the Army--to know that smell. Jim shook his head in disgust. There had to be an explanation for this. The question was, was Sandburg in any shape to give him one? His gaze changed from the trancelike stare of a Sentinel using his senses and back to the concerned frown of a parent, and he turned that gaze on Sandburg.

Unfortunately for Jim, Sandburg was gazing up at him adoringly. The dewy anime-eyes and dilated pupils were soon joined by a goofy Sandburg-special grin. Blair's higher cerebral functions, which had been on vacation, decided to drop in for a second to oxygenate his starving brain tissues. His numbed nerve endings decided to join them, and Blair groaned painfully.

"God, Jim, man, what hit me? Last thing I remember I was at the concert with Kevin and... And..." Blair turned puzzled eyes on Jim. "Am I okay? Why do you look like that, Jim?"

"Yeah, you're fine, buddy." Jim forced a small smile for Blair's benefit. "Concert, huh? Must have been some show." While Jim talked, he knelt down and helped Blair to sit up, settling his wobbly Guide to lean back against his leg.

Blair peered up at Jim owlishly from behind crooked glasses and unruly hair. "I think I'm drunk, Jim. But I don't feel drunk. Jim, why don't I feel drunk if I am drunk, Jim?"

"Come on, Chief. Stand up, buddy. We'll get you back in bed." Jim stood and pulled Blair to his feet just enough to get him seated on the bed. "You might be a little drunk there, Darwin, but I don't think you'd need my nose to smell what you're high on." Jim started to unbutton Blair's shirt to find Blair buttoning it right back up behind him. He shook his head. Maybe a little distraction would help. "Who was playing at that concert, anyway, Chief?"

"Oh, man, it was great! It was Phish, man! They're this jam band, Jim, and they were so cool!" Blair's uncoordinated hands were flapping around quite unpredictably in his excitement, causing Jim to have to duck and dodge as he worked at getting Blair down to his boxers and undershirt.

"I know who they are, Sandburg. I don't live in a cave, you know."

*And I know their fan base's reputation, too,* Jim thought. *Bunch of pot-smoking wannabe-hippie kids running around tripping their faces off on Ecstasy and smoking enough pot to fill a Midwestern wheat field.* He shook his head. *Sandburg's got a freaking contact high.* He didn't say any of this to Blair. Instead he continued, "They've got an ice-cream flavor named after them, right? Like Cherry Garcia."

Jim used the ensuing exposition on the merits of Ben and Jerry's flavors to get Blair's pants off and lift the uncooperative legs onto the bed.

After settling Blair back against the pillows and drawing the blankets up around his shoulders, Jim noticed Blair relax almost immediately--a sympathetic reaction to just being in bed. He smiled a bit as he watched Blair struggle unsuccessfully to keep his eyes open.

"How about a glass of water and a couple of Tylenol? Might help take the edge off in the morning."

"Mmmmm. S'okay, Jim. I'll be quieter now that the room is stopped."

Jim smiled tolerantly. "I didn't realize it had started, Chief. Maybe you're more drunk than I thought. Just hang in there for one more minute and I'll be back with the Tylenol."

"Sure, man." Blair yawned widely and snuggled down into the blankets, wriggling a bit to get comfortable. "Whatever you say." He blinked sleepily a few times, and when his eyes didn't open after a few seconds passed, Jim headed for the bathroom.

After shaking two Tylenol from the bottle, he filled a glass with water and made his way back to Blair's room.

Setting the glass down carefully, Jim sat on the edge of the bed and gave Blair's shoulder a gentle shake.

"C'mon, Chief. Join me in the land of the living for a second, okay?"

Blair mumbled a bit and, scowling, he rolled away from Jim, pulling the covers almost over his head in the process.

"Sorry, Chief. I'll turn the light off as soon as you take these. Come on, Sandburg. Wakey-wakey."

Jim pulled the covers away from Blair's face and lifted his shoulders so he was upright enough to swallow without choking. Blair flailed grumpily, but he was uncoordinated, sleepy and hindered by blankets, and he quickly settled down and let Jim slip the caplets between his lips.

After taking a couple swallows of water, Blair tried to wriggle away from Jim again. Mumbling about irritating Sentinels who won't let their Guides sleep, Blair scootched around until he found a comfortable spot and went immediately to sleep.

Jim couldn't hold back a grin. This was going to be SO much fun in the morning.

* * *

It was well after 11 when Blair finally stumbled out of his room and into the bathroom. Jim heard the shower come on and took that as his cue to start the coffeemaker.

Watching Blair drag himself out of the bathroom almost 20 minutes later, Jim realized he didn't have the heart to taunt his obviously chagrined Guide. He kept his voice low, unsure of the type of hangover Blair was coping with. If it was mostly from alcohol, Sandburg was probably nursing a wicked headache. If he was still coming down from the contact high, he was probably hungry, grumpy and still pretty tired. If it was both... Well... Jim would cross that bridge when he came to it.

As Blair slouched into the kitchen, Jim took his hand, wrapping the damp fingers securely around the handle of a full coffee mug.

"Here you go, Chief. Nectar of the Gods." Jim kept his voice low, just in case. "How's your head this morning?"

Blair smiled, wrapping his cold fingers around the warm mug, soaking up the heat. After taking a tentative sip, testing the temperature of the brew, Blair drank deeply and sighed with contentment.

"Not really a headache, man. Not like a hangover headache, if that's what you mean. I just feel kind of... wiped out. I know I slept enough, but it feels like I'm running on empty." Blair sighed, sipping at the coffee. "I've never felt like that before in my life. Was I a real pain? You know... last night..."

"I wouldn't say 'pain,' Sandburg, but you were definitely not yourself." He peered at Blair thoughtfully. "I have to ask, Blair. Had you ever smoked marijuana before last night?"

"Jim!!! I did *not* smoke pot last night! I was just...there, and all the people around me were smoking, but it was an open-air show, and I didn't think it would matter since it wasn't indoors, and..."

"Okay, all right already. I was just asking. God, after hearing about all the stuff you've eaten, drank and smoked with this-and-that tribe-of-the-wherever, I figured you must have tried marijuana at some point." Jim looked at Blair with complete sincerity. "I wouldn't condemn you if you had. I was in the Army. I worked Vice. There's nothing unusual in experimenting with that stuff, and I just assumed with Naomi and everything that you'd probably tried it at some point. That's all."

Jim's speech seemed to mollify Blair a bit. He even grinned at the mention of Naomi. "Well, I guess a lot of people DO think that. The long hair, the Naomi factor..." He wandered into the living room with his coffee, plopping down onto the couch. "But it *was* a great show, man. You should've been there, Jim! They jammed on one song--ONE song, man--for, like, fifteen minutes! It was incredible, and the crowd had a really amazing dynamic going on--almost like when a tribal gathering has gone on for awhile and they start to..."

Jim let his attention drift away from the barrage of anthropological observations, secure in the knowledge that Blair was, indeed, fine. As Sandburg continued his running examination of concert crowds as tribal cultures, Jim nodded encouragingly.

A smile had long since replaced the Ellison frown.

 

*End*


End file.
